There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts—-How sad this evening.
Past the village
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.
Returning
Shepherds found the sweet
Decayed in the bramble bush.
A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of GodI drank from the woodland well.
On my forehead cold metal forms.
Spiders look for my heart.
There is a light that fails in my mouth.
At night I found myself upon a heath,
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars.
In the hazel
Crystal angels have sounded once more.
